It Had To Be You
by MusicWritesMyLife
Summary: London, 1947: Sybil Crawley is an MI6 agent working undercover at the BBC foreign desk who yearns to get out into the field. Tom Branson is a G2 agent who wants nothing more than to take down the organisation that tore his family apart. Infiltrating the IRA should be a dream come true for them both. The catch: they have to pretend to be married—and they hate each other.


**A/N:** Merry Christmas, or as they say in Ireland, _Nollaig Shona!_

The idea for this story rose as the result of watching SPECTRE, The Man from UNCLE, Agent Carter (for the hundredth time) and The Hour in the space of two weeks. I have to thank the lovely BroadwayBaggins, for whom this fic was written for the lovely prompt around which to organise my ideas! This fic has been many months in the making, but was never solidified until I got you prompt.

For those of you who may not be familiar with the British intelligence system, as I was not before I started, SIS is another name for MI6. G2 is the Irish equivalent.

Title taken from "It Had To Be You" by Dick Haynes and Helen Forrest. I listened to a lot of 40s music while I was writing this, and this song seemed to fit the characters very well.

* * *

 _Dublin, 1947_

The downpour is sudden; one minute the evening is clear, and the next, rain is streaming from the heavens like someone has opened a floodgate. The woman's shriek echoes in the alleyway, and the pair stagger into the nearest doorway for shelter. The man's arms reach for the woman instinctively, bundling her against his chest and away from the cold, but she clearly has other ideas.

"Don't touch me," she hisses, pressing her back against the opposite wall and reaching up to wring water from her hair. The long, dark curls tumbled free of their pins during their escape and hang in a wet tangle around her face.

"Fine," he snaps, trying not to let the sting of her words show on his face. He doesn't care what she thinks—or at least that's what he tells himself.

(The line between truth and lies have become so blurred he's honestly not sure anymore which is which anymore.)

She rolls her eyes. "There's no need for you to be acting like the wounded party, Branson. We wouldn't be in this situation if you hadn't _triggered the bloody alarm_."

"I didn't know there was an alarm!" he retorts, struggling to keep his voice quiet. He's nearly positive they weren't followed—then again, he was certain about the alarm, too. "They've never had any before!"

"Well, times have obviously changed! We fought a bloody war, Tom, and if what Graeme's been saying about the Soviets is really true—"

"It's not my fault they've changed upgraded their security—"

"—and if you bothered to _think_ instead of running head-first into everything like some bloody sodding _hero_ , none of this would be happening—"

"Well if you weren't always insisting you know how t'do my job better than me, I wouldn't feel the need to—"

"Knowing has nothing to do with it—I _do_ your job better than you and you bloody well know it! That's the problem—you can't bear the thought of a _woman_ being better than you at anything, can you, you great"—she thumps her fist against his chest in a sudden fit of frustration—"sodding"—another punch—" _man_!"

She goes to swing her fist again, but he's ready this time and catches it before she can land the blow. He's always been taken aback by how delicate she is, how soft her skin feels beneath his fingers; she has a will of iron that's nigh on impossible to overlook. He can feel her pulse thrumming against the underside of his thumb, strong and hot like the fire burning in her blue eyes.

For a moment, neither of them moves, glaring at each other, chests heaving from the exertion of their escape and subsequent argument. His heartbeat echoes in his ears, a relentless rhythm begging him to give in, to let go of the hate he so desperately wants to feel for the firebrand before him and give in to the complicated and yet far more satisfying desires that have haunted him since they first locked eyes in a crowded ballroom nearly two years ago. There's a flicker of something in her eyes that makes him wonder if perhaps she feels the same, and for a fraction of a second, he thinks he might well give in. Fighting it is exhausting.

(The memory of her lips against his is seared in his brain and he almost kisses her again.)

He releases her wrist; it falls limply to her side, brushing the fabric of her trousers with a wet rustle. The sound shoots straight to his core and he swallows, pushing the feelings away.

"We'd best get going," he says curtly, turning his collar up against the rain and stepping out into the alley.

He doesn't look to see if she follows him.

.

.

.

From the beginning, it seems, Lady Sybil Crawley and Tom Branson are destined not to get along.

They meet for the first time at a cocktail party. It's December. The war's been over for nearly eight months now, and neither of them quite know what to do with themselves.

The G2 offices are strangely quiet after the excitement of intercepting German spies and IRA efforts during The Emergency, as they call it, and Tom can't help the horrible sense of dread that's curled like a cat in the pit of his stomach. Matthew's terribly relieved about the end of the war, the brief respite before the next conflict begins (because there will be one, Russia is just biding their time), but Tom feels as though he's hanging from a thread that's threatening to snap. The IRA has been inactive in the months since the armistice, and it makes him uneasy. Nothing good has ever come of peace in Ireland.

Sybil finds the monotony of being behind a desk once more, compiling dossiers on diplomats who may be potential Soviet spies, mind-numbing after the excitement of the war, and finds herself praying for another conflict, if only for something to do.

Neither of them wants to be at the cocktail party, but Tom is shadowing a wealthy German industrialist who has been rumoured to be funding Sinn Féin operations, and Mary thinks that a night out will do Sybil some good.

It's entirely chance that she spots Herr Menninger across the room. Sybil's been reading reports on him for weeks, and hasn't quite made up her mind yet as to whether or not the rumours that he's funding IRA efforts in Ireland are true or not, so she isn't about to waste an opportunity to get some answers. Herr Menninger will never answer her questions directly, but if there's anything Sybil has learned in her time employed with the SIS, it's that no man is immune to the charms of a beautiful young woman.

Getting him to dance is all too easy. Her dress is new, blue silk and particularly flattering; a bat of her eyelashes and a few pleasantries and Herr Menninger is leading her in a waltz.

She sees him standing in the corner of the room. He's wearing a tuxedo, like just about every other man here, but the cut emphasises his broad shoulders and the defined musculature she imagines is under his crisply pressed shirt. There's a tumbler of whisky clutched loosely in one hand and an intensity in his eyes that makes her insides quiver.

Sybil has seen him before, she thinks. A few weeks ago, or maybe a month, at the BBC. He was talking to Sara, the foreign desk manager, but Sybil remembers catching those bright blue eyes as she made her way to the teakettle.

She thought nothing of it then, but seeing him here now, watching her—or Herr Menninger, or both of them she really can't be sure—makes the hair on the back of her neck tingle. It's not a coincidence, that much she's sure of, but whether he's a journalist looking for a good scoop or someone like _her_ , she's not sure.

Menninger insists on getting Sybil some refreshments after their dance. She agrees—they've spoken of nothing but trivialities despite her attempts to steer the conversation into more political territory. She can feel those bright blue eyes burning holes into her back as they make their way across the room; it makes it difficult to focus on Menninger's most riveting description of his steelworks in Baden.

"You know," Sybil says, struck by a sudden moment of inspiration, "one of my dear friends is ever so interested in steelworks and I just know he'd love to meet you."

She's not particularly eager to share her investigation with another agent—if he is even an agent—but her own attempts at investigation have so far proved fruitless and, well, two heads are always better than one.

It's almost comical the way his intense expression shifts to one of surprise as Sybil and Menninger approach.

"This is my friend I was telling you about," Sybil continues, for once thankful for a lifetime of good breeding. She flashes her most charming smile and prays that he's quick-witted enough to follow along.

Apparently, he is: he smiles warmly and sticks out his hand. "Tom Branson, sir. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Herr Menninger was just telling me about his investments in steelworks and I couldn't help but tell him how fascinated you are with the subject."

Branson's eyebrows rise slightly—steelworks, she's painfully aware, are not particularly fascinating to anybody—but turns to Menninger with a look of appropriate curiosity. "Really? And what, exactly, is your involvement with this fascinating industry?"

(She's quite sure he's mocking her—the smirk twisting at his lips confirms it.)

Menninger launches on a long-winded diatribe about the steelworks industry in Germany, most of which Sybil pays no attention to—she's far more interested in watching the mysterious Mr Branson. He looks too clean-cut to be a journalist—most of the reporters she sees floating around the BBC look like they've rolled out of bed and into their suits without the faintest notion of what they're wearing, unless they're television presenters, of course, but he doesn't strike her as one of those. And yet, he's not quite well-dressed enough to be an agent, either; upon closer inspection, the fit of his tuxedo emphasises the musculature of his upper body so well because it's a little tight—she can see the studs straining on his shirt.

She's so busy admiring observing Branson that she loses all track of the conversation; it isn't until Menninger is kissing her hand and making his excuses that she remembers she actually has an assignment to do—one that's she's obviously forgotten all about.

"The pleasure is all mine," she says with her most charming smile. "Perhaps we can have lunch sometime before you go back to Germany?"

(It's very forward of her, inviting a man to lunch, but this is 1945 and people don't seem to care so much about propriety anymore—this sort of avant-guard thinking is starting to become fashionable.)

Fashion or no, Menninger doesn't seem the least bit bothered by her forwardness; he simply smiles and promises to clear some time in his schedule.

"Christ," Branson mutters under his breath as Menninger walks away. "What the bloody hell do you think you're doing, lass?"

"Excuse me?" Sybil snaps, trying to quell the flush rising in her cheeks. Yes, she might have caught him off guard, bringing Menninger over like that, but it couldn't have been so terrible. "And my name is Sybil. Sybil Crawley. Not 'lass'."

He shakes his head incredulously. "Do you have any idea what you've done, _Sybil_?" Her name is twisted in a sneer. "Of course you don't, you're just one of those airy paper-pushers at the BBC hoping to make a name for yourself by hooking a big story. Or maybe it's the money you're after: catch yourself a good husband and you'll never need to work again."

Sybil isn't sure what's more insulting: that he thinks she's a paper pusher, or that she's after Menninger for his money.

(If that was all she were after, there are a great many young men better-looking than him for her to choose from.)

"Neither, actually," she replies hotly, squaring her shoulders. "I'm an analyst for the foreign desk. And Herr Menninger happens to be of great interest to us right now."

Branson drags a hand through his hair roughly, making a mess of whatever pomade he had holding it in place. "Blessed Mary have mercy—" He swallows back whatever curses were meant to follow it. Sybil tries not to be fascinated by the movement of his Adam's apple. "I'll never bloody speak to him now."

Sybil is sure this isn't meant for her hearing, but she can't help getting the last word. "Well, if it weren't for me, you wouldn't have spoken to him at all," she says primly. "No need to thank me."

She turns on her heel so sharply that Tom has no idea of what to say—or even think—until she's halfway across the ballroom, silk skirts swaying in her wake.

.

.

.

After five months, Tom thinks he must be cursed. The Almighty must finally be punishing him for his sins—there's no other reason to explain why he cannot seem to go anywhere without running into Sybil bloody Crawley.

They see each other twice before he returns to Dublin. The first time, in the coffee shop at the BBC building, he's talking to Sara when Sybil saunters up, cheeks flushed, and announces that Menninger's agreed to speak to BBC about the hardships faced by Germany since the war. The story has nothing to do with his assignment, but he can't help feeling frustrated—not only because she's gotten access to Menninger again but because the sight of her eyes sparkling triumphantly makes his stomach do spectacular acrobatic feats.

The second time he's at lunch with Matthew before catching the train to Bristol. They've barely sat down with their tea when Sybil bursts in, all meek and flustered, slouch hat askew, saying Mary had said he was here and that she thought she'd pass the message along on her way to the studio, but if it's too much trouble it can wait. Matthew, of course, gentleman that he is, insists that she stay since she's troubled to come all this way and does Tom mind terribly if they talk for a moment?

Tom has no choice but to agree through gritted teeth and spend the next five minutes watching them confer over a file folder at the next table. It's likely nothing related to Menninger, but he can't help feeling slighted.

The dance continues in the same fashion for months. Tom has a lead on an informant or a potential supplier and somehow, Sybil Crawley is always there, smile on her face, fighting to steal the leads from under his nose with that charming smile of hers.

What irks him the most isn't that they're competing for information. That happens all the time in the intelligence business—though he's not even sure that she's _in_ the intelligence business (but how could she not be; Matthew has no reason to take lunch with analysts from the BBC). What frustrates him is that it's affecting his work ethic— _she's_ affecting his work ethic. She's so honest, so eager and engaged that it's impossible for him to maintain the attention of his target—they're too busy being charmed by Lady Sybil.

(So is he, but he isn't about to admit it. Especially not when Matthew has hinted several times that they might be well-suited.)

He thinks he's finally rid of her when the word comes in from the superiors that G2 and SIS are teaming up on a joint offensive to tamper down a potential IRA rebellion. Tom, no surprise, is chosen for the assignment because of his family's long history with the IRA, though O'Keefe gives him a long speech on the ferry from Dublin about how this isn't a personal vendetta and that he has to make sure his loathing for the organisation doesn't cloud his judgement. Tom's never worked with a foreign agent before, but half of the intel about potential suppliers of the rebellion—Nazis, the lot of them, and a few Soviets, all probably looking to stir up trouble in the Isles so that they can start a nuclear war—came from SIS agents, so it's only fair to give them some of the glory.

(So Tom's superiors say, anyways. He doesn't agree with it himself, but he hasn't much say in the matter.)

"Always a pleasure to see you, Tom." Matthew keeps an illusion of propriety when they meet at SIS headquarters in London, but the mischievous spark in his eyes belongs to the man Tom has called his best friend since they were both causing trouble at Oxford.

"Likewise," Tom replies with a stiff nod of his head. Matthew's lip twitches, and Tom can tell he's trying not to laugh.

"My agent, unfortunately, is running a little behind."

While he may not have been born and raised in the posh upper class Tom hates so much, Matthew has always known how to talk like one. Tom might find it more irksome, if he hadn't seen how very _ungentlemanly_ Matthew can be when drunk.

Tom rolls his eyes for show and earns a stern glare from O'Keefe, who is, as usual, less-than-impressed with Tom's anti-imperial attitude.

"But we can get started of course—I'm sure she'll be along in a minute."

The words are barely out of Matthew's mouth when the door swings open, and (of course, _of course_ , he should have known) Sybil Crawley tumbles in. Her cheeks are flushed with exertion, and her dark curls tumble in a wild cloud around her face. She isn't wearing a hat—in fact, with her pale purple blouse and navy trousers, she looks anything but conventional.

"Sorry, I'm late, the foreign desk was a nightmare this morning and the bloody Tube was a disaster," she says breathlessly, pulling a large file folder out of her satchel. "I haven't missed anything, have I?"

"No," Matthew says kindly. "Perfect timing in fact—we're just getting started. Gentlemen, may I present Miss Sybil Crawley. Miss Crawley, Director O'Keefe of G2 and Agent Tom Branson."

Sybil is all charm when she smiles at Director O'Keefe—who, if he's surprised to see her, doesn't show it—but Tom can swear he sees a glimmer of contempt when her eyes flick towards him.

(Or maybe it's triumph. He's not sure.)

"What is _she_ doing here?"

In his head, it didn't sound quite so rude.

"Branson," O'Keefe snaps warningly.

Sybil opens her mouth, eyes blazing, but Matthew is quicker.

"It's a fair question," he says. Matthew Crawley, always the peacemaker. Must be, with a fiancée like his. "Agent Crawley is going to be your partner on this assignment."

" _Dia ár sábbáil,_ " Tom mutters under his breath.

O'Keefe glares at him.

"Agent Crawley is the most qualified for the assignment," Matthew says in an overly patient tone that tells Tom he was expecting this reaction. "She's done extensive profiling on Sinn Féin members who might have political ties to foreign industrialists who could support a rebellion, and she knows more about Communists and Nazis than anyone in the office. Plus, she's the right age for the cover."

"Cover?" Sybil says sharply. She looks about as surprised as Tom—and about as pleased, too.

"Married couple," O'Keefe says easily as if he's telling them the time of day or what the weather is like outside.

Sybil drops her file folder on the table with more force than necessary, fixing Matthew with a sharp look that gives her an uncanny resemblance to her sister. Tom has only met Matthew's fiancée once, but it was long enough to witness her arsenal of disapproving expressions. "Married," she deadpans.

Matthew nods. Tom can tell he's scrambling for a solution that will prevent another outburst. "Yes. Obviously that isn't the only reason you were selected, but it is helpful."

Sybil's frown deepens.

"What other reason is there?" Tom snaps. (Other than to drive him mad.) "Surely there are more qualified agents who can be briefed."

Sybil glares at him. "I'm perfectly qualified for fieldwork," she hisses.

"Are you?" Tom fires back. "Is that why they've got you closeted away at the BBC?"

"I am not _closeted away_ —"

"Chemistry is also a factor."

O'Keefe has never had a way with words, but he knows how to make them count. Sybil and Tom both round on him incredulously.

" _Chemistry_?"

"Aye." O'Keefe is grinning now, the little shit. "Crawley here has been telling me all about your natural ability to work together."

Matthew flushes slightly under the intensity of their glares, but doesn't back down. "There is no other option," he says firmly. "It's for the best."

"Are you out of your bloody minds?" Tom protests. "She's going to get herself killed—or the both of us for that matter. I'm all for dying for my country but I'd soon as not do it because of a typist with grand ideals!"

"If your only objection is my lack of field qualifications, I can assure you, it won't be a problem. I'm not afraid," Sybil replies tartly.

"I'm more concerned about the fact that an untrained Englishwoman is a prime target for nationalists looking to stir up trouble," Tom says coolly. "Something our superiors might have considered."

There's a tiny flash of uncertainty in Sybil's eyes. She hides it with a determined tilt of her chin.

"We did," O'Keefe replies, ignoring the accusation in Tom's tone, "but given that Miss Crawley is quick on her feet and very progressive, we thought they might be willing to overlook that objection. It doesn't hurt that she's a rare fine lass, either."

(Sybil's glare suggests that it hurts quite a bit.)

"If the situation makes you at all uncomfortable, however, Sybil, we can make other arrangements," Matthew says gently. "Anti-English sentiment in Ireland is still very—"

"I'm fine." Sybil squares her shoulders, as if daring Matthew to defy her. " _I_ have no objections to this assignment."

O'Keefe grins. "Congratulations, Branson. You've just found yourself a wife."

(Matthew's explanation of the mission particulars can't quite drown out Tom's muttered curses.)

.

.

.

Kieran is going to meet them at the ferry terminal. Tom thinks this is a terrible idea. Sybil, of course, thinks it's excellent.

"It seems far stranger if we refuse," she says pragmatically, examining her hair in with a small compact mirror. The ferry is crowded, but they've managed to secure a small berth. "Besides, I'd want to meet your family."

(Tom tries to ignore the strange fluttering in the pit of his stomach at the thought of Sybil meeting his family.)

He hadn't thought their cover would need to be so detailed. He shouldn't have been surprised; Kieran, after all has followed in their father's footsteps and will be his way into the organisation. Still the thought of lying to his family about something so sacred as marriage, particularly to his mother, makes him feel nauseous.

"Well, I suppose we'd best put these on," he says, holding out a small box. Inside is a gold band and a silver ring with two extended hands holding a crowned heart.

Sybil has seen Claddagh rings before—one of the girls at the foreign desk has one, a gift from her mother. She's always been a little jealous; while she may have many expensive rings in her jewellery box, none have nearly as much history or sentiment.

"It's beautiful," she says quietly.

"It was my mother's," Tom replied curtly. "I always said I'd give it to my wife, and we've got to be convincing."

Sybil doesn't miss the subtext. _I never thought it would be you._

"Thank you," she says, mollified by the gesture. "I'll take good care of it."

(Her spine tingles when Tom slips the ring on her finger. She tries not to think to much about it.)

Kieran looks nothing like Tom, which surprises Sybil a little—she at least resembles her sisters a little bit in some way, even Edith, who's always been considered the black sheep of the family. He's shorter than Tom, and rougher: his brown hair sticks up in tufts under his grey cap and his beard looks like it could use a good trim.

"Tom," he says, clapping his brother on the back, though the warmth of his gesture doesn't quite reach his eyes. Sybil gets the feeling there is a lot of history between them and none of it pleasant.

"Kieran." Tom's reply is curt. "This is my wife, Sybil."

Kieran snorts. "Wife, eh? Mam'll kill ya for not invitin' her to the weddin'."

"We didn't invite anyone," Sybil interjects hastily. "We were simply walking past the registrar's one day when Tom proposed we do it right then and there rather than waiting for a big church to-do. It was terribly romantic."

She means to ease the tension, but the glare that Tom shoots her and the disdainful look on Kieran's face tell her she might have been better off keeping her mouth shut.

"She's English, too, is she now?"

The animosity in Kieran's tone makes Sybil shiver. She'd not really given a thought to Tom's objections before, but it's obvious now the anti-English sentiment in Ireland is much stronger than she thought.

"Aye, she is," Tom says coldly. "You've a problem with that?"

Kieran just shakes his head, chuckling. "I jus' never thought I'd see the day you were willingly gettin' in bed with the English is all. Best get going. Mam's cookin' up a storm and she won't want t'be kept waiting."

The ride to the Bransons' is tense and silent. Sybil doesn't dare open her mouth, for fear of making the situation worse, and neither Kieran nor Tom obviously have anything to say to one another. She busies herself watching the streets of Dublin slip by, all the while aware of Kieran's eyes on her in the rear mirror. His gaze makes her feel uncomfortable, but there's nothing she can do but pretend to ignore it. She's a stranger here, in a strange land.

Tom's hand closes around hers, as if he can sense her discomfort. Sybil is sure the gesture is just for show, to make it seem as though he's the doting husband to his new bride, but she can't help feeling comforted nonetheless. There's something about the way his hand fits around hers, so large and work-roughened and yet surprisingly gentle, that feels _right._

(She doesn't want to think to much about why.)

The Bransons live in a tiny row house in the north of the city. The outside is very run-down (the kind of house Granny would scoff at) but the front door is painted a cheerful shade of blue and there are clean lace curtains in the windows. Sybil finds she quite likes the place. It's certainly homier than Downton.

A face flashes in the window as Tom helps her out of the car, but disappears with a flutter of the curtain before Sybil can get a good look. She and Tom haven't talked much about his family—they haven't talked about it at all in fact—so she has no idea if he's told any of them what is going on; Kieran didn't know anything, but Sybil gets the impression Tom doesn't speak much to his brother.

"Tom!"

The door swings open with such force that it bangs violently against the wall inside. Sybil hears a shout from inside the house—"Saoirse, mind the door, _tú bodach beag_ "—as Tom is assaulted by a blur of skirts and blonde hair. He staggers slightly, winded by the unexpected attack, but the smile on his face is the first genuine one Sybil has seen in their whole acquaintance. It brings a light to his eyes that matches the playful best mate Matthew has so often said she'd be "a great match" for.

"Missed me?" he asks playfully.

Saoirse frowns at him. "You didn' tell any of us you got _married_!" she says, punching his arm. "Mam's in a right state about the whole thing."

The laughter dies in Tom's eyes. Sybil twists the ring around her finger nervously.

"Spur o'the moment, apparently," Kieran says dryly. "Must ha' been, else wise he'd never ha' gotten away with marryin' an English lass—and a well-bred one a'that too."

Sybil can feel the panic rising in her throat and tries to push it down. She won't let Kieran bully her into submission—she can't bear to give him the satisfaction.

" _Gread leat_ , Kieran," Tom snaps, fists clenching at his sides. Sybil has no idea what it means—she doesn't speak any Gaelic—but his tone conveys the meaning well enough.

Saoirse rolls her eyes. "He's jus' naggin' ya, Tom. You needn't get so riled up about it. And don' you be worryin' either," she adds, turning to Sybil with a warm smile. "Mam's got nothin' against you—her only beef is with _amadán_ here. If Tom's seen fit to marry you, you must be a rare fine woman indeed, _Sasanach_ or no."

"Thank you," Sybil murmurs, cheeks flushing. She can't bear to look at Tom. (How are they going to explain all of this later—how is he going to explain, really, because she's going to have nothing to do with it.)

"This is Sybil," Tom says. If Saoirse picks up on the tightness in his voice, she doesn't comment.

"Like the ancient Roman oracle!"

"Yes." It's absurdly pleasing to know that Saoirse Branson is well-versed in Roman mythology—as though it proves what Sybil has always been telling Granny: there is more to people than title and wealth.

Saoirse grins. "Wonder if you've any skill at fortune tellin' then. Maybe you can give us a readin' later?"

Sybil begins to protest, but Saoirse fastens a hand around her wrist and drags her inside. "Leave the lads to unload," she says. "Mam's dying to meet you."

.

.

.

Mrs Branson doesn't kill her, though Sybil feared for a moment that she might kill Tom. She doesn't, in the end, rather she insists on throwing a large Dublin kitchen party in their honour so that they can be properly introduced to all the neighbours. Tom thinks it's a terrible idea (of course) but their cover will be more believable if they act natural, and—as Sybil is rapidly learning—the natural thing to do in Ireland is to throw a party. Besides, the place will be crawling with IRA members, so it's the perfect time to start making connections.

Matthew and O'Keefe decided for the sake of convenience that Sybil and Tom would stay together at Tom's flat. Tom isn't pleased with the idea (Sybil doesn't think he's pleased with any part of this assignment), but doesn't protest.

It's nice. Small, but Sybil's never really been attached to grand homes. Mary loves the elegant townhouses of Kensington, but Sybil has always longed for a smaller place that isn't attached to all the pomp and circumstance of the peerage.

(She much prefers Tom's flat, actually—not that she'll give him the satisfaction of admitting it.)

Sybil has one formal dress in her suitcase. It's not her best—despite Mary's protests to the contrary, Sybil would stick out like a sore thumb in any of those—but it's one of her favourites: the same blue silk she wore to the cocktail party the night she met Tom. The style is nearly two years out-of-date, but it brings out the colour in her eyes, does wonderful things to her figure, and won't make her look too posh.

She leaves her hair loose, pulling a few curls back from her face with a large silver clip her grandmother sent her from New York. She's never attempted styling her hair without the help of Mary and Anna, both of whom know much more about fashion than she does, but Sybil is quite pleased with the result. Some kohl to line her eyes and a swipe of lipstick—in bright red, at Mary's insistence ("You must have _something_ to make you stand out, darling.")—and she has to admit the overall effect is quite stunning.

Tom obviously thinks so too, whether he wants to admit it or not, because he freezes when she emerges from the bedroom. They're late, Sybil knows, and she can tell from the scowl on his face he is prepared to chastise her for taking so much time—perhaps with a scathing comment about the upper class. The look of shock on his face when he sees her is almost comical.

Despite his lengthy protests about the party and muttered threats that they won't be able to force him into some fancy monkey suit, Tom's pride seems to have won over his indignation. While his black suit is not the fine calibre cut Sybil is accustomed to seeing in restaurants and dance halls in London, it fits much better than his tuxedo—which, she later learned, was borrowed from Matthew—and Sybil has to admit, somewhat begrudgingly, that he looks far handsomer than any of the "uppity lord-types" (as Tom is so fond of calling them). He is actually _very_ handsome, and Sybil is glad that he is too shocked to see the blush that flames across her cheeks at the thought.

"What," she says, desperate to regain the footing the sight of him has swept so effortlessly out from under her, "do I look too posh? Afraid I might get jumped by one of your IRA mates?"

The words have their desired effect: a dangerous spark flashes in Tom's eyes and he straightens his jacket self-consciously.

"They're not my _mates_ ," he snaps, and Sybil almost feels bad; she knows how much he loathes the IRA.

"We should go," he mutters shortly. "We're late to our own bloody wedding party."

Sybil can't quite keep the smirk off her face. "Are you saying you wish I had taken less time getting ready? You know us 'uppity lady-types' can't simply roll into our clothes as you do. It's awful, but we're _so_ concerned with our appearance."

A long string of muttered Gaelic follows her out the door.

The church hall is a fair walk from Tom's flat. He suggested they borrow Kieran's car so that she wouldn't be "worn out by the long trip through the slums", but Sybil has been dying for a chance to properly explore the city and loves walking, a fact of which she proudly informed Tom. He acted surprised, but she could have sworn she saw the corners of his mouth twitch.

"We should get our story straight," Tom says a few blocks from the hall, abruptly breaking the silence.

"If you'd like," Sybil replies.

Tom frowns. "If we don't have a straight story, our whole cover will fall apart," he says sharply, in a tone that Sybil has come to recognise as his "I must know better than you since I'm a decorated field agent and you're a typist at the BBC" tone.

Sybil shrugs. "I simply thought we'd make it up as we went along. It's worked for us in the past."

She can tell by the deepening scowl that Tom is thinking of the night they first met; she knows he still resents her for it.

(She tries not to be enthused about the fact that they work so well together, either, but she can't help feeling a little thrilled at their connection.)

They've established some parts of their story already at dinner with the Bransons last week: where they first met (the cocktail party in December of 1945—best to stick as close to the truth as possible), how he proposed (in front of the registrar's office before they got married), and she does (typist at the BBC).

They decide they're staying in Dublin for the near future and that Sybil is hoping to get work with RTE. They have no plans for a honeymoon until they have some more money saved up, and agree that it's safer not to talk too loudly about their nationalist ideals in mixed company.

The church hall is filled almost to overflowing with people. Music spills out onto the street as Tom opens the door, and Sybil is suddenly engulfed in warmth and noise. A table of refreshments has been set up against a far wall, and the bulk of the room is dominated by dancers who whirl around at dizzying speeds to the jigs and reels from the accordion and the fiddle in the corner of the room.

It's completely different from any party Sybil has ever been to.

She loves it.

Saoirse pounces on them before they've even made it in the door.

"Sybil! There you are, _a chara,_ we've been lookin' for you everywhere! I mus' say that's a lovely dress—from one o'those fancy boutiques in London, I'll bet." She winks like they're sharing a scandalous secret.

Sybil grins. "It's Tom's favourite. He'll never admit it of course, but I was wearing it the night we met and I know he couldn't keep his eyes off me!"

Tom's answering smile is almost a grimace. "You look lovely, _a ghrá_ ," he says quietly, reaching up to brush away a stray curl already escaping from her clip. Sybil's breath catches in her throat at the touch of his fingertips against her skin.

"Mam'll be lookin' for the both a'you—she'll be wantin' to make toasts and introduce you to everyone and get you to do the traditional dances—but afterwards we'll be able to put some _real_ music on and have proper dancin'," Saoirse says eagerly. "Ronnie O'Rourke's mam has a record player and I made sure to get Ronnie to bring it along with them so we can put on some proper records after all this"—she gestures to the musicians—"and it'll be just like one of them fancy dancin' clubs."

Tom frowns. "There's nothing wrong with traditional music."

Saoirse rolls her eyes. "Aye, yes, we'll all burn in hell if we so much as listen to anything that doesn't express our pride as a nation all the time."

"That's not what I said—"

"Come on, Tom" Sybil says playfully, resting a hand on his arm. "It wouldn't kill you to live a little."

Saoirse grins. "Have I told you how much I approve of your choice of wife, Tom?"

"No," Tom mutters. "And I don't expect I'm about to hear the end of it any time soon, either."

The night is a whirlwind. There are speeches and toasts at Mrs Branson's insistence, which Tom grumbles about, particularly when Kieran shouts, "Kiss the lass for Christ's sake, Tom!"

Tom glowers at him, but Sybil squeezes him arm sharply. Kissing shouldn't be a chore when you're newly wed.

She probably should give some thought before acting, but everyone is staring at them, and Tom bloody well isn't going to do anything about it, cover or no, so Sybil does the only thing she can think of: she stretches up on her toes and kisses him.

For a moment, Tom doesn't move and Sybil is afraid he's going to pull away. Then, slowly, he kisses her back, gently, as if he's afraid she might crumble.

His lips are surprisingly soft.

Tom pulls away slowly, to loud cheering and wolf-whistles. Sybil glances at the floor, trying to hide the blush flaming across her cheeks. She was expecting to have to kiss Tom at some point during their assignment, but she wasn't expecting it to feel like this, like she's floating on air.

"I said kiss her, Tom, not have your way with her," Kieran teases.

Tom mutters something under his breath in Gaelic. Sybil gets the impression that it's not very gentlemanly.

The speeches are followed by dancing, including a lively reel that the newlyweds are supposed to lead, which _Sybil_ grumbles about.

"I don't know the first thing about dancing!" she hisses as Tom leads her out into the middle of the floor.

Tom smirks. "Really, Crawley? From what I hear that's you all uppity folk do."

"You know what I mean!"

Tom chuckles. His amusement only makes Sybil angrier.

"Relax, lass. It isn't as though the world is ending." He flashes a cocky grin. "Live a little."

She punches his arm.

The dancing isn't terrible, but it _is_ awfully fast. Sybil has no idea what Tom is doing with his feet most of the time, but she lets him whirl her around the floor to the cheers and boot-stomping of the assembled crowd.

(Saoirse tells her afterwards that she did much better than anyone expected—they were actually placing bets on whether or not she would even get up on the floor. "I said you would, o'course. I looked them right in th'eye and said, 'She's no' afraid that girl'.")

One reel becomes two and then three and then the jigs start and suddenly it's been an hour and Sybil is staggering breathlessly off the dance floor for some refreshments.

"So was it quite as awful as you thought?" Tom teases, passing her a cup of punch. Maybe it's the atmosphere, or maybe he's really an excellent actor, but he seems to be genuinely enjoying himself. He's more relaxed than she's ever seen him; it makes him look ten years younger—and much more handsome.

Sybil laughs. "I quite enjoyed it, actually. Despite being an 'uppity type'."

(She thinks she sees a flash of something in Tom's eyes for a moment, but it disappears so quickly that she chalks it up to wishful thinking.)

The evening continues much in the same way. Tom laughs far too much at her horrible dancing and she laughs in return at his less-than-suave attempts at swing dancing. Many of his mates poke good-natured fun at her accent, but on the whole, the evening is rather pleasant. The Irish really do know how to throw a party—in fact, Sybil can't quite remember the last time she had so much fun.

She spots Tom talking quietly to Kieran as they gather their coats. Neither of them look particularly pleased at the development, but they part without any cursing or flying fists, which is a marked improvement. Sybil is desperate to know what they're talking about—it must be related to the assignment because Kieran is a member of the IRA and Tom doesn't talk to him if it can be avoided—but she can't bear to break the pleasant silence than lingers between them as they walk hand-in-hand back to the flat.

She means to ask him about it when they return, but Tom beats her to it.

"Kieran's gotten us an invitation to Bill McCormack's garden party next Saturday," he says, wiggling the key in the lock.

"So that's our in, I suppose," Sybil replies. Bill McCormack is a wealthy Irish businessman whose operations seem to be legal—Sybil has a very large file folder on him in her case. He's got power, enough friends in the government to turn a blind eye to his less-than-legal endeavours, and a large network of wealthy international contacts. In other words, he's the perfect person to find money for IRA operations.

Tom nods absently, hanging his coat on the stand. "Assuming Kieran actually gets us an invitation, that is."

Sybil raises her eyebrows. "You think he won't?"

"My family has a long history with the IRA," he says shortly. "My father was in the thick of it during the War of Independence, and he stayed in it until he was executed in 1940. Kieran got into it as soon as he was old enough to drop out of school, though Da made us run errands for him and some of the other men when we were younger. Mam hated it, but he promised he'd never do anything that put us in danger, and she couldn't stop him from doing whatever he pleased, so she decided as long as the garage kept bringing in money, she'd keep her nose out of it."

Suddenly, Tom's decision to join G2 even though he seems to clash so violently with figures of authority and his violent hatred of the IRA makes much more sense.

"When I decided not to follow in Da's footsteps, it was a big controversy in the organisation—especially when I joined the military. I was supported everything they were against, and a lot of people thought I had betrayed Da's memory. I stayed away from Mam's for a while, until things died down.

"So, no," he says finally. "I don't expect he will come through—I think he's too suspicious."

"Well, we'll think of something if he doesn't," Sybil says consolingly. She wants to put a hand on Tom's arm, to tell him she's sorry about what happened to his father, but the spell of the evening is already fading and she can see him retreating back behind his walls so she says nothing and goes quietly to the lavatory to change.

Tom is in his pyjamas by the time she comes out, reading _The Irish Times_ in bed. The familiar tension has returned to his shoulders, and she tries to quell the rising disappointment when he moves as far over as he can when she slips beneath the sheets, as if the thought of touching her is revolting.

Sharing isn't as awful as she imagined it would be—Tom slept on the couch for the first three days, until the kink in his neck was so bad that Sybil insisted he stop being a fool and share the damn bed with her—but it's terribly awkward. Tom acts as though she's some kind of particularly nasty insect he mustn't touch, and Sybil is terrified she'll wake up in the morning with her arms wrapped around him—Mary and Edith both refuse to share a bed with her for that exact reason. She hoped that after this evening, it might be different, but things have undoubtedly returned to the way they were.

"Tom?" she says quietly, when she thinks he must be asleep. It feels horribly dark and lonely in the bedroom, and she wants to remind herself she isn't alone.

"Mmm?"

"What is it that you called me tonight at the party?" Her tongue stumbles on the unfamiliar sounds. " _Uh gra_?"

" _A ghrà_ ," Tom mumbles.

"Yes, that. What does it mean?"

(She isn't sure she wants to know.)

"My love. It means _my love_."

(She knows it means nothing, but the words send shivers running up and down her spine.)

She sleeps soundly that night for the first time in weeks. When she wakes in the morning, her hand is twined with Tom's. She wonders if she should move it before he wakes, but he squeezes her fingers in his sleep, a small smile curving on his lips.

She leaves it.

.

.

.

Kieran keeps his end of the bargain, much to Tom's surprise—an invitation to Billy McCormack's garden party arrives in the post three days later. The rest of the week is spent in a flurry of preparation. Tom pours over blueprints of the house, which are from outdated surveys of the area at the turn of the century but are better than nothing, mapping escape routes and probable locations of hidden Nazi communications. Sybil goes over the notes she's compiled on the IRA contacts they've made so far, as well as files on the suspected foreign contacts. She's incredibly focused, bending over the papers in front of her, bottom lip tucked between her teeth as she scratches frantically with her pencil.

(Tom's surprised she doesn't use a fountain pen; when he told her as much she rolled her eyes. "Difficult to correct one's mistakes in fountain pen," she replied tartly.)

Sybil insists on taking him dress shopping with her the day before. Tom doesn't see the point—he has far better things to do than spend an afternoon wandering through the city, watching Sybil try on dresses he'll likely never be able to afford—but Sybil says it's the kind of thing married couples do and reminds him that Matthew suggested they do some activities together to "get comfortable with one another". Tom wants to argue that living together for nearly a week should have been more than enough time to get to know one another but knows that it's not true—they're no more comfortable with one another now than they were before the assignment.

It actually isn't so bad. He tells himself it's all part of the act, that he's just playing the doting husband, but the truth is Tom isn't sure what is real and what is part of the act anymore. The sight of Sybil marching out of dressing rooms in dresses and suits of all colours, cuts, and patterns sets his blood racing in a way that most certainly is very _real_.

He knows which dress she picked—he paid for it (and refused to let her pay him back later even when she insisted)—so his breath shouldn't catch in his throat when he emerges from the lavatory the afternoon of the garden party to see Sybil, fully dressed, doing the Sunday crossword at kitchen table. It's simple and yet elegant (he was surprised when Sybil picked it out—though he knows by now he shouldn't have been): black, with a high, scooped neckline and short sleeves. Both the skirt and the sleeves are scattered with daisies embroidered in gold thread, and a narrow band of gold piping winds its way around Sybil's waist. She's swept her hair back from her face in an elegant twist and embellished it with a narrow bronze circlet of daisies. The effect is rather Bohemian and profoundly _Sybil._

(It's in this moment that Tom realises however much he might like to pretend otherwise, he's completely head over heels in love with Sybil Crawley.)

He clears his throat. "Any, erm, news?"

Using the crossword puzzles to communicate was Sybil's idea, which irked Tom very much when she first suggested it—it still does now because it's quite frankly genius and he can't believe he didn't think of it himself.

Sybil looks up, pencil between her teeth. Her lipstick is the colour of a fire engine.

(All of his blood suddenly rushes to somewhere very far from his head.)

"I'm not quite finished," she says, turning her attention back to the puzzle, oblivious of the effect she is having on Tom—or else very good at hiding it, he's never sure with her, "but it looks as though Matthew wants us to break in."

"To McCormack's? But we've been invited."

"Yes, but afterwards. We're to meet Graeme tonight after the party—he'll have something for us—and then we're to sneak back in and bug his office. Telephone is best, but anywhere in the office will do, really. That way MI6 and G2 can listen in on McCormack's calls and see if they can pick up anything."

The excitement shining in Sybil's eyes at the thought of breaking into McCormack's makes the task all the less appealing. She thinks this is all some kind of great adventure, but this isn't a fairy tale, and wide-eyed innocence can get you killed.

Kieran is kind enough to lend them his car—Sybil, at any rate, says that it's kindness, but Tom knows he's only doing it because the bloody thing is likely to break down on the side of the road at any moment. They say very little on the drive to McCormack's estate, beyond establishing a rough plan: make their introductions and necessary small talk, after which Tom will discuss business plans and Sybil will slip off to investigate the house under the pretence of freshening up.

McCormack's estate is a two-story red brick Georgian manor repossessed from British nobility during the War of Independence. It's far too large and ostentatious for Tom's tastes, and he can't resist making a crack about how this must all be so middle-class for the great Lady Sybil—her garden shed is probably the size of the house.

(Sybil, to her credit, merely rolls her eyes.)

The lawns are filled with well-dressed people, most of whom Tom recognises as prominent politicians and business people.

"Well, Mr McCormack certainly keeps good company," Sybil says quietly as they make their way to the large marquee where refreshments are being served.

"I suppose you'll feel right at home then," Tom replies.

Sybil glares at him in exasperation, but her retort is cut off by the arrival of their host.

"Ah, Mr Branson!"

Bill McCormack is a robust man, with a red-face and thinning brown hair, known for his roving eye and insensitive behaviour. Tom has met him several times at cocktail parties in Dublin and hasn't once enjoyed the experience.

"Mr McCormack," Tom replies stiffly. He doesn't like the way McCormack's eyes slide appreciatively along Sybil's figure. The way she tenses at his side suggests that she doesn't either.

"I must say I was rather surprised when Nathan Gorman told me that you'd come around to see our side of things. I thought you were firmly opposed to our business."

Tom clenches his teeth. Sybil's fingernails dig painfully into the crook of his elbow. "Times change."

McCormick chuckles. "Don't they ever? Why, I never thought I'd see the day you married an English lass, either, but it seems you're a man of many surprises."

"Aye."

"Sybil Branson," Sybil says, when it becomes clear that Tom isn't going to introduce her. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance."

McCormack takes her outstretched hand and raises it to his lips. Tom swallows.

"The pleasure is all mine, Mrs Branson, I assure you. I can see why young Tom here was so taken he was willing to make an exception for you; I'd be tempted to forget all the sins of the _Sasanachs_ when presented with such a stunning young lady. Why the things I would do—"

Jealousy swells in Tom's chest like a wave. There's no need for it—Sybil isn't his wife, isn't his _anything_ —but the way McCormack looks at her makes him want to tear the other man in two.

"I'll thank you not to speak to my wife like that," he snaps, wrapping his arm around Sybil's waist. His fingers brush her hipbone through the fabric of her dress and she stiffens.

McCormack laughs. "It was a jest, lad. No harm meant—though I can see it might have been done."

Sybil smiles, gently extricating herself from Tom's grip. "My husband isn't known for his sense of humour," she says apologetically. "Now I do hope you two gentleman will excuse me, but I must go freshen up. The drive in from the city has left me quite worn out."

(Though her tone is sweet, the underlying sarcasm is evidently a jab at him.)

Tom talks himself in circles with McCormack for ten minutes after Sybil's departure, but any information the older man might have about potential munitions dealers is cloaked in vague statements about the industry and the foreign market. Tom has never been good at making small talk—something that Sybil, of course, excels at—and is all too happy to give up the conversation and let McCormack move on to other guests.

Perhaps it's his failure to get any information from McCormack, or his frustration with this whole assignment in general that propels him into the house. Sybil is still inside, and according to their plan, he is supposed to remain outside until she returns, but Tom can't take another second out there in his second-hand suit, pretending to care about the weather or the latest results of the races in Phoenix Park. He needs to be doing something useful, and besides, it doesn't bloody well make any sense for Sybil to be the one snooping around inside—she doesn't know the first thing about spying. She should be the one out here, chatting idly with the ladies and charming information out of McCormack since she's so bloody good at it.

He tries a few doors on the main floor, all of which open into grand-looking sitting rooms, before climbing the stairs. He has no luck with the first few doors, but the third one reveals McCormack's office—and Sybil, riffling through one of the desk drawers.

She jumps nearly out of her skin when he opens the door, eyes wide, only to scowl when she recognises him.

"What are you doing in here?" she hisses. "You're supposed to be outside talking to McCormack!"

"Yes, well, in case you hadn't noticed, I'm not very good at meaningless small talk!" Tom snaps. He can feel the colour rising in his cheeks and wishes it wouldn't. He hates that she makes him feel so useless.

"Tom, for Christ's sake, now is not the time to be getting upset about the bloody class divide! Yes, I'm nobility. Yes, I was raised to curtesy and drink tea from good china and say 'How do you bloody do', but that doesn't mean I'm incapable of doing anything else! Has it ever occurred to you that I might hate it?"

(It has, but he isn't about to tell her so.)

"Well, I don't think it's a good idea for you to be in here by yourself, either! You haven't got any field training."

Sybil throws her hands up in exasperation. " _Really_? Is that the best you have, Tom? I've been sneaking in and out of places my whole life. One of the perks of being one of those snotty upper-class ladies. In fact, I'll wager that I'm a hell of a lot better at it than you are!"

Tom clenches his fists. He wants to hit something, _badly_ —if only because Sybil is probably bloody right. "This isn't like slipping in and out of lover's bedrooms to preserve your reputation—"

Sybil flies at him before he has a chance to finish. Tom thinks she's going to hit him—he deserves it—but she doesn't: instead, she shoves him against the doorframe and crashes her lips against his.

It's like a floodgate has opened within him.

He kisses her hungrily, like she's all he's ever needed (she might very well be). Her hands card wildly through his hair as his fingers skim over her back, tracing the outline her brassiere. The thin fabric of her dress rucks up between them, and he can feel the edges of her garters pressing into his trouser legs. The sensation sends a jolt straight to his cock.

Someone clears their throat loudly behind them and Sybil jumps away as though she has been shocked. Her cheeks are the colour of ripe tomatoes. Tom is having difficulty bringing himself to care that they've been caught.

A valet stands before them, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

"Sorry," Sybil giggles, threading her fingers through Tom's. "We didn't mean any harm, we were just— well, we're only just married…"

The valet's cheeks are nearly as red as hers. He opens his mouth as if to say something—scold them perhaps—but loses his nerve and flees without a word.

For a moment, Tom feels nothing, as though his brain has suddenly disconnected from the rest of his body. When he comes back to himself and realises what they've done, he's furious with himself for going along with it.

(None of this is helping his self-control.)

"What the _hell_ was that about?"

Sybil glares at him, cheeks still flushed. Her bottom lip is swollen from where Tom bit her, and pieces of hair have tumbled from her elegant twist. She looks ravished.

" _That_ was to keep us from getting caught snooping," she says coldly. "Since you were to busy yelling at me to notice that the valet was about to discover us, _I_ had to do something. Maybe if you spent more time slipping out of ladies' rooms to preserve your own reputation, you'd be better at it."

She's gone before he can think of a reply.

.

.

.

The silence that lasts after their near-miss during the break-in is deafening.

Sybil isn't sure she can stand it for much longer; not only is life in the flat terribly dull with no one to talk to (she never thought she'd say it but she actually misses arguing with Tom) but avoiding him is horribly difficult when they share the same tiny space. He's slept on the sofa every night since it happened, which hasn't made the situation any better.

(Honestly, they're probably going to get themselves killed tiptoeing around each other like this.)

She's sitting on the sofa nearly four days afterwards, thumbing through Tom's well-worn copy of _A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man_ , when he emerges from the bedroom, adjusting his cap. One of his braces has come undone at the back, but Sybil isn't brave enough to fix it.

"Where are you going?" she asks, feigning pleasantness.

"Out," Tom replies brusquely.

"Oh?"

Silence.

Sybil sighs, setting the novel aside. "You know, I know you're meeting Graeme at the pub. It's not as though I simply shut my ears off when you men are making plans just because I'm a woman."

Tom glares at her. "No."

"But I haven't even said anything!"

"It's all over your face, Crawley. And the answer is no." Tom thrusts his hands into his trouser pockets, searching for his keys. Sybil has hidden them in the umbrella stand. "It's too dangerous."

Sybil tilts her chin. "I can handle myself."

"I never said you couldn't." Tom spots the keys in their hiding place and picks them up. The sharp glare that follows tells Sybil he knows exactly what she was up to. She flashes him a sickly sweet smile—one that disappears the instant the door closes behind him.

" _Men,_ " she mutters, rising from her seat and marching off to the bedroom. If he's not going to include her, she'll have to invite herself. She's tired of him sidelining her in the interests of her own protection; this is as much her assignment as it is his. Graeme isn't going to object—particularly not if she's wearing the dress Mary sent up last week. _For a special occasion_ , she said.

Making your partner mad with desire (because she knows he is attracted to her—the kiss at the garden party confirmed it) is special enough.

* * *

The walk should have cleared his head, but Tom is just as ruffled—if not more—when he arrives at the pub. He's been in a foul mood ever since Sybil kissed him at Bill McCormack's garden party, which has only aggravated their already strained partnership. Tom is of half a mind to tell Graeme that this isn't going to work anymore and that he should get O'Keefe to pull Sybil out right now before she gets one of them killed.

"You look like you're in a right state," Graeme Connolly chuckles as Tom slips onto a stool beside him at the bar. There are a few other men sitting nearby, but none of them are close enough to overhear their conversation.

"I don't want to talk about it," he mutters, gesturing at the bartender for a pint.

Graeme looks as though he wants to ask more questions, but seems to think better of it. He's been undercover for far longer than Tom has, and has learned when to mind his tongue. "Well, you'll be pleased to know your tap was successful—even though you set off half the alarms in the city doing it."

The joke is not appreciated.

"O'Keefe thinks they might have something useful in the next couple days. Until then, we're to find out as much as we can about "

Someone wolf-whistles from across the pub, but Tom doesn't pay it any mind until Graeme says quietly, " _Christ_ Tom, I don't know how you manage to keep it professional. If I were married to a woman like that, I wouldn't be able to keep my hands off her."

Tom whips around so sharply he nearly knocks Graeme's pint off the counter. Sybil is making her way through the crowd towards him, wearing a red dress— _the_ red dress. Tom saw it when it came in the mail from Mary last week, and has tried his very best to forget about it ever since then.

(This isn't going to help him clear his head. Far from it.)

Lacy and beaded, with a fitted bodice and flared skirt, the dress looks even better on Sybil than Tom has imagined (and he has imagined it quite a bit).

" _Dia ár sábbaáil_ ," Tom hisses under his breath. Half the pub is staring at them, and most of them know both him and Sybil—the news will be all over the city by morning.

"Evening, Graeme," Sybil says sweetly, kissing his cheek. "Darling."

Her lips brush against Tom's cheek gently. She smells of perfume and lipstick, sweet and salty. Tom swallows the lump that rises in his throat.

"Didn't think we'd be seeing you this evening, Sybil," Graeme says easily. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"I felt like getting out of the flat," she replies, as if they were only out for casual evening drinks and not sitting in a pub surrounded by radical nationalists who have no idea they're both spies. The complete disregard she has for her own safety makes his blood boil. She's going to get herself killed— _blessed Mary,_ she's going to get them both killed.

(Matthew was mental to think this was a good idea in the first place. O'Keefe probably only went along with it to spite Tom.)

"You have to leave. _Now_ ," Tom hisses.

Sybil rolls her eyes. "For heaven's sake, Tom, I'm not a child. I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself, and if that makes you uncomfortable, you can—"

Tom rises abruptly from his stool. "I'm not having this conversation here," he mutters. "That dress you're wearing is like a fucking beacon, Sybil—do you really think any of the fools in here are going to leave you alone in something like that?"

 _Do you think I can leave you alone in something like that?_

"They know that I'm your wife. I'd think they'd know better than to touch me."

"Half of them are drunk! I'll not be fighting for your honour against a pub full of idiots—not when half of them have knives concealed in the front of their shirts. _Christ_ , Sybil, d'ya ever _think_?"

Two bright red patches appear on Sybil's cheeks.

Graeme chuckles nervously. "I think I'm going to leave you two to it. Need another drink, Tom?"

"No," he snaps. "What I need is for you to take Sybil home. I've got to talk to Nathan Gorman about when he thinks funding is going to come from Germany."

"I'm your bloody _partner_ , Tom, not a child! I don't need minding!"

"Then stop acting like you do! If you used your bloody head for once in your life—"

But whatever Tom is about to say (he's not even sure himself) is lost in the sudden roar from the corner of the bar.

Nathan Gorman has risen from his seat in the corner of the bar, eyes blazing. "Fucking _Sasanachs_ raided Menninger's warehouses in Italy," he shouts. "Now we've no arms shipment coming in!"

The pub erupts into chaos.

Everyone is shouting, wild accusations flying back and forth, cursing the English, blaming Bill McCormack for stalling the shipments, accusing Nathan of not putting enough pressure on the right people. No one seems to have noticed Sybil—or Tom for that matter, though he cares less about himself—but it's only a matter of time.

They need to leave _now._ Before things get ugly.

Tom tucks Sybil under his arm and they make their way towards the door, Graeme following on their heels. They're three paces from it when Tom hears a shriek and Sybil vanishes from under his arm.

"Filthy English whore!" he hears someone shout. "You brought this trouble on us!"

The next few moments are a blur. Sybil screams his name, Graeme is shouting at him, but the only sound that matters is that of his fist connecting with the bastard's face. The other man makes a half-hearted swing, but Tom has a childhood spent boxing in the back gardens with Da and Allen and Kieran, four years fighting Nazis on the continent, and a boatload of pent-up rage on his side—the other man doesn't stand a chance.

Some poor bastard tries to pull Tom off, only to receive a right hook to the jaw. Rage sings in his veins, the pent-up frustrations of months on the job vented in the swing of his fists. He's forgotten how _good_ it feels to fight, really fight—not that namby pamby sparring they do in the training rings.

"Tom! _Tom!"_

Her screams break through the haze and Tom turns just in time to see Sybil disappear into the crowd, Graeme shouting her name.

He's fighting for a completely different reason now, elbowing his way desperately through the throng.

Sybil is sprawled on the floor, lifeless. A trickle of blood runs down her forehead, bright against fair skin. Graeme is crouched over her like a shield.

"I tried to get to her as quickly as I could, Tom," he gasps, "but we got pulled apart in the crowd and she fell and hit her head on the edge of the table and the crowds were so thick I couldn't get to her in time—"

Tom's mind has gone totally blank. Sybil's face is so white and still.

She looks as though she might be dead.

She _can't_ be dead.

Not now.

Not before he has the chance to tell her—

Tom swallows the bile rising in his throat, fingers groping for a pulse. It flutters beneath his fingers, faint and weak, and Tom breathes a tiny sigh of relief. She's not dead.

She weighs almost nothing in his arms. He bundles her against his chest, trying to ignore how her head lolls against his shoulder.

Graeme clears a path ahead of them, yelling and cursing in Gaelic. Tom can't tear his eyes off Sybil's face. He's never seen it utterly devoid of emotion before—even asleep, there's always that hint of spirit, of _Sybil_ , in her features. To think of that face, forever empty, sends panic clawing at his throat.

He can't lose her.

He swallows deep lungfuls of air when they burst into the street, trying to quell the rising panic. Graeme offers to call for a cab, but Tom refuses. It's only a few blocks to the apartment, and he doesn't dare wait here any longer.

 _She'll be all right,_ he tells himself as he carries her home. He's never been more aware of the depth of his feelings for her than he is in this moment; it echoes in his bones like a second heartbeat with every step he takes.

 _I love her._

 _I need her._

 _She can't be dead._

"Oh Sybil," he whispers. " _A ghrá mo chroí_ , come back to me. _Please."_

.

.

.

She comes to slowly, the dim light sending a dull ache straight to the back of her eyes. She feels as though she's been struck by a lorry, acutely aware of every part of her body aching. Her head pounds and the act of focusing makes her feel nauseated.

It comes back to her in flashes. The meeting at the bar. Tom insisting she stay back at the flat, that it wasn't safe for her to be about, not with tensions as they are. The heat of the room, hazy with smoke and smelling strongly of lager and sweat. Fists flying. Someone calling her a dirty English whore and Tom leaping on him in a rage. A hand on her arm. The momentary sense of weightlessness as the ground rushed up too quickly, and then nothing.

Soft muttered sounds from the corner of the room make Sybil turn her head. Tom is hunched over in a chair, face buried in his hands. His voice is too quiet for her to make out the words, but the quiet desperation is one she recognises from many nights during the war.

He's praying.

Sybil knows Tom is a Catholic, and he's been to mass a few times since they arrived in Dublin, but she's never thought him to be particularly religious. Maybe it's because of what they do, or maybe it's simply the company she keeps, but she's never met an agent who was particularly devout—unless of course they're American. There isn't room for morality in a profession like theirs.

"Tom?" she whispers. Her voice rasps in her throat, weak and vulnerable.

Sybil isn't sure that he can hear her, but his head snaps up like a whip.

She wants to make a joke, some witty comment about how God won't answer his prayers, but the look on his face steals her words. She's never seen him so distraught before, so vulnerable. It makes her insides quiver.

"Sybil," he whispers hoarsely. "Christ, are you—?" He breaks off, hands carding restlessly through his hair. "How d'you feel?"

"Fine." She wishes her voice weren't so quiet; it might reassure him more. "I feel as thought I've been trampled by a stampede of horses, but I'll live." She manages a small smile. The action makes her face hurt. "You'll not be rid of me yet."

"Christ, _a mhuirnín_ —" Tom stares at her with wild, bloodshot eyes. "Do you think that I'd be glad—?" He shakes his head incredulously. "I just spent the last three hours prayin' t'God that you'd live, that you'd be all right, if only so that I could hear your voice one more time, and you think that I— you think I want t'be rid of you?"

His brogue is thicker, less cultured when he's upset. Sybil's always liked that; it seems more honest, as if she's seeing the man beneath the polite facade—though Tom's never been one to keep his true colours hidden for very long.

"No," Sybil says uncertainly. His words and the great intensity of feeling behind them confuse her. She's always clung to their animosity towards one another like an anchor and now as it crumbles she feels weightless, as thought she's been set adrift. She can't hide from herself anymore. "I didn't mean it that way, I was only—"

In truth, Sybil has no idea what she was trying to say. Diffuse the tension perhaps? Try and steer them back into the familiar waters of raised hackles and constant criticism? She only knows that she hurts more than she ever has in her life and the pit dropped out of her stomach when Tom looked at her.

Tom grabs a fistful of hair in his hands, clenches it, and lets it go. He looks positively wild, hair sticking up in all directions, eyes bloodshot and ringed with dark circles, face gaunt and haggard. He's always so collected—hair perfectly combed, clothes neat no matter how shabby they might be—that she finds his vulnerability unnerving.

He rises so suddenly that the chair falls to the floor with a clatter. Two steps and he's is crouched on the floor beside the bed, clasping her hands with a gentleness and desperation that makes Sybil's heart ache.

"When I saw you fall, and you were lyin' there so still— Sybil, _a ghrá,_ I've never been so terrified in my life," he whispers. His thumbs trace gentle circles on the back of her hand, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in their wake. "To think that I might almost have lost you and never gotten the chance to tell you—"

He raises her hands to his lips suddenly, pressing a tender kiss against her knuckles. Sybil's heart hammers painfully hard in her chest; it's as though she's suddenly forgotten how to breathe.

"Thank God you're alive." Tom's voice wavers tremulously before he buries his face in the bedclothes. His shoulders shake violently, but the blankets swallow his cries. Sybil can feel the tears burning in her own eyes.

It comes to her very suddenly: how terribly foolish they've been, all the time that they've wasted pretending to hate one another, competing with one another. Life is fleeting, especially in their line of work, and they should both know better than to waste a single moment of it.

"Hush," Sybil murmurs gently. She wants to reach out and comfort him, but her hands are still clasped between his and rolling over is too painful to contemplate. "Hush, darling. It's all right. I'm all right."

"I just can't—" Tom's voice is muffled. "I know I shouldn' say it but I can't keep it in any longer."

He takes a long, shaky breath. Sybil's head has begun to spin terribly, but she's not sure if it's from her injuries.

"I've told myself and told myself that you're above me, that it's not professional, that we could never make each other happy, but things are changin'. Ever since the war, none of those things seem t'matter as much anymore. I've as much chance in the world as you at anything, perhaps even more so because I haven't got all those antiquated ideals holding me back."

Sybil tries to laugh, but her ribs hurt too much and the sound comes out like a chocked cough. Tom looks mildly alarmed.

"Look, I know your family won't approve of this, but they'll come around eventually," he says desperately, clutching her hands between his as if they're the only thing tethering him to this earth. "Even if they never come around, I'll—I just can't lose you again, Sybil. And I can't spend the rest of my life pretending t'hate you, either."

"If you've only been pretending all this time, you've done a good job of it."

Sybil was only making a joke, but the frown on Tom's face makes her wish she could take it back.

"Don't make fun of me. It's cost me all I've got to say these things."

"Your pride, you mean. You'd not likely lose everything if I were to reject you."

Sybil isn't sure where the words are coming from, why she isn't screaming yes, yes, a thousand times yes (after all, isn't that all she's ever wanted?), but her brain and her mouth don't seem to be connected anymore.

The corner of Tom's mouth twitches slightly, but his eyes are so terribly intense, so earnest. Sybil isn't sure she's seen so much true emotion on Tom's face in the whole of their acquaintance. She's not sure how to handle it.

"That's true enough, I suppose," he says quietly, "but I'd lose my heart and I'm not so sure I could live without that."

"Tom—"

(He can't mean that, surely. She can't be so important to him.)

"Just hear me out," he says urgently. "We do great work together, you and I, and I know that I may have seemed like a terrible ass at first—all right, I was a terrible ass," he amends at the sight of Sybil's raised brows, "but the only reason I acted so horribly was because I was incredibly frustrated at myself for acting like a total fool every time we were in the same room. You mesmerise me, Sybil, and the only way that I can seem to get any work done when we're together is if we're working together, no matter how much I might pretend otherwise.

"I know it's a lot to ask," he finishes softly, "and I know I've behaved awfully and I've nothing to my name so fancy as anything those uppity suitors can give you, but I can offer you my heart, and I promise that if you bet on me, I will devote every waking minute to your happiness."

Sybil swallows the lump in her throat, trying to regain her composure. "What makes you think," she says finally, voice thick, "that I would want anything those 'uppity suitors' can give me?"

Tom's eyes light up like a Guy Fawkes bonfire. "You don't mean—?"

"We've both behaved awfully," Sybil says in a tone much calmer than she feels. "It wasn't only you, Tom. I was just as foolish, telling myself that I didn't feel anything for you— Honestly it's a marvel that we didn't get ourselves killed. What was it that Matthew said before we left? We needed to keep a clear head?"

Tom laughs feebly. "I suppose we've done a bloody awful job at that."

"And there's no need to do it anymore." Sybil takes a deep breath, wincing as pain shoots through her ribs. Tom leans closer, concerned, but she waves him away. "You say you'd lose your heart if I turned you down, and if you'd asked me two days ago, I might have said you were surely mocking me, but after tonight— You're not alone, Tom. And you never have to be again, if you don't want to be."

The words are barely out of her mouth before Tom's lips are on hers. She can tell he's trying to be gentle, but there's so much tension built up between them that neither of them are able to hold back the feelings that explode between them.

They've kissed before, but it's always been Sybil instigating the kiss and always as part of their cover. Unlike her own kisses, which always began with a frozen moment of uncertainty before it really began, Tom's kisses are hungry and demanding. They feel urgent, as though he's afraid she's going to slip through his fingers at any second and he needs to show her how he feels before it's too late.

(He's alwyas been better at showing his feelings with actions than words.)

The loud chime of the clock on the mantlepiece shatters the silence. Tom starts so violently that Sybil can't help laughing, only to double over when the pain in her ribs is too much.

"Happy Christmas, _a ghrá mo chroí,_ " Tom says quietly.

In all the chaos of the last few weeks, Sybil has completely forgotten about Christmas. It's her favourite time of year, but with the stress of the assignment (and keeping Tom from making her go mental) she's barely noticed. If it weren't for the lights strung up in the shop windows, she likely wouldn't have noticed at all.

"Happy Christmas, Tom," she replies and kisses him again.

.

.

.

They lie low for a week, at Tom's flat in Dublin. Sybil finds she enjoys the domesticity after the mania of the past months; it's terribly nice to wake up in the morning and not have to worry about being anything other than herself.

Matthew sends a telegram on Thursday with details of Sybil's return to London. As much as she has missed her family and her flat in London, she's surprisingly disappointed at the thought of returning home so soon.

Tom drives her to the ferry terminal. The ride is filled with trivial conversation, but both are aware of the goodbye that's looming.

"I have to confess I'm going to miss this," Sybil says as Tom takes her bags from the boot.

Tom grins mischievously. "Well, now, Mrs Branson, what do you say we make our marriage official so you can keep that ring?"

Sybil's cheeks flush. Her heart is hammering painfully against her ribs. "Why, Mr Branson, what are you suggesting?"

"That we stop with all this nonsense and get married. In a church. You know Mam will never speak to us if we don't have some kind of church celebration, and I'm sure there's no law against getting married twice so long as it's to the same person."

Tom is grinning like a fool and Sybil is sure her answering smile is just as wide.

"Why, Mr Branson, I thought you'd never ask."

(Matthew is insufferable at the ceremony, telling everyone in earshot that without him none of this would be happening. Sybil laughs, Tom grudgingly admits that Matthew might have had something to do with it but the fault is mostly Sybil's, and Mrs Branson tells Mary and Matthew they are welcome for dinner any time they're in town.)

* * *

 **A/N:** The idea for the Sybil and Tom's "wedding" was shamelessly stolen from Claire and Frank's wedding in the Outlander TV series.

A note on the Irish: I did my best to find accurate translations, but any mistakes are mine.

 _Dia ár sábbáil_ : literally, God save us, but equivalent to you're fucking kidding me

 _a ghrá mo chroí_ : love of my heart

 _tú bodach beag_ : you wee heathen

 _gread leat_ : shove off

 _amadán:_ idiot

 _Sasanach:_ English

 _a ghrá:_ love

 _a mhuirnín:_ darling

This is also likely not the end of the dynamic duo! While this story is quite condensed, there were a lot of scenes I thought of that would've made it too long, so they will likely be published separately as deleted scenes of sorts. I've really enjoyed writing Sybil and Tom in this universe and I have many more adventures for them up my sleeve!


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